Five Scenes From Shakespeare
by Cora Clavia
Summary: Five short stories, each inspired by lines from the Bard.  Caskett, Castle POV.  Oneshot.


**Five Scenes From Shakespeare**

**Summary:** Caskett musings inspired by lines from the Bard. Castle POV.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own _Castle_ or its characters; this story is written for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

><p>1. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!<p>

_Hamlet_

A night-long stakeout in the deep freeze of January was not a pleasant way to spend an evening. Thankfully, Castle had not had to do so. Unfortunately, Beckett had.

He got the call at five that morning – get your ass here, writer person, your partner's close to hypothermia but we finally found the dealer – and was out the door in five minutes.

Criminals usually didn't pick the coldest days of the year to come outside, but anything could happen. He arrived at the old apartment quickly, finding several other officers milling around, blowing slightly less frigid air onto gloved hands in an attempt to stay moving. One of the other homicide cops explained that Beckett and Esposito had been staking out the building. The heat in the van had died, but Beckett had stubbornly opted to stay put rather than bail and risk losing their only lead.

Typical Beckett.

Gruff Cop From Downstairs, owner of the finest mustache at the precinct, eyed Castle doubtfully, but seemed to decide he was okay. "Hey, whatsyerface. You, non-police guy. Yeah, you. We're on our way out. You come here and keep an eye on her, okay?"

Castle obediently shuffled closer to the van, where Beckett was huddled in a blanket in the backseat. She shivered, her hands clutching for the blanket shaking so hard she almost couldn't hold it. Castle hastened to wrap it back around her, making sure it didn't fall. And he took her hands, closing his around them, rubbing gently, trying to get her blood circulating. Her hands were freezing.

She took in a deep breath, her body shaking so hard she struggled to let it out. "Castle – I'm freezing. Can you – please – " her teeth chattered – "help?"

He stared for a second before it hit him: Katherine Beckett was asking him to hold her.

Pigs flying? Blue moons? Hell freezing over? Nope. This definitely topped them.

Never one to pass up an invitation to happiness, he hurried to pull her close before she could change her mind, wrapping his arms around her as snugly as her could, trying to surround her with warmth. Kate fit perfectly in his arms, her long hair tumbling softly onto his chest, her slim shoulders pressed against his. Her breath came in soft puffs against his neck.

"If you tell Ryan or Esposito that _any_ of this happened – "

"Your snuggling secrets are safe with me, Detective."

She either shivered or laughed, trembling against him. Maybe it was both. "Thanks, Castle."

"Anytime you need the warmth of my muscular arms, you just call. Consider it a standing reservation."

She chuckled, burrowing into his arms further. "You rent out your arms?"

"A writer's gotta eat, you know."

"Guess so."

She fell silent for a moment. He concentrated on her breathing, feeling her ribs expand and contract. She seemed to be shivering less. Good.

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"You give really good hugs."

Yep. Officially the most unexpected day yet.

* * *

><p>2. Peace! I'll stop thy mouth.<p>

_Much Ado About Nothing_

"It was _not_ him!"

"It most certainly was, Detective."

She rolled her eyes, stalking through the break room door as he held it open for her. "Name me a single piece of evidence that supports your claim."

Castle thought rapidly. It was rare that Kate gave him the opportunity to prove her wrong, after all. He didn't want to waste it. "Well – he – he has crazy eyes."

She sighed heavily. He hastened to redeem himself. "- which is circumstantial. I know. But he also seemed to know a lot about the victim. Too much for 'just a friend.'"

Beckett held up her cup up, watching it fill, and seemed to consider it. "Could be nothing."

"But if it's nothing, then why wouldn't he tell us about it? If he really has nothing to hide."

"Not bad, Castle, but I need more than that for any kind of a warrant."

About three points higher praise than he usually got. He decided to stay with it. "Um – well, I guess he didn't _say_ anything. He just told us what she said that night."

Beckett stared at her coffee for a moment, murmuring softly. "_What she said – _" Her eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "He knew what she said that night. Impossible. Unless – "

"- he was _there_ – "

"- which means he _lied_ when he said he was downtown!"

"We need to talk to him again."

"I think he said his work shift ended late today. We can catch him before he leaves." Coffee in one hand, she turned to head back out to her desk.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Beckett?" She stared at him, confused. "I believe you meant to acknowledge that I was right and you were wrong."

"You wish."

"You can't fight it, Beckett. You admitted it. I nailed this one."

"Then there's no need to repeat it."

"I beg to differ. Maybe I could rig up a PA system through the building, so that the entire precinct can properly enjoy the fact that Katherine Beckett, homicide detective, was just intellectually bested by the dashing, rakish novelist Richard Ca-"

He stopped abruptly as she leaned into him and pressed one finger to his lips, her eyes sparkling dangerously.

"Yes, Castle, you were right."

With a saucy smile, she turned and walked off, and he could have sworn there was more sway in her hips than usual.

Esposito, having obviously seen Beckett walk out, poked his head into the break room to find Castle still staring at the door, a little dazed, absently stirring his coffee.

"Hey, Bro – who won the argument?"

Castle grinned. He couldn't stop grinning. Probably never would.

"She did."

* * *

><p>3. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.<p>

_Antony and Cleopatra_

"Thank you, Mrs. Norton. Do you have his current address?"

"Oh, I know I wrote it down. It's in the kitchen somewhere. Could you – oh, thank you, Detective." The young mother smiled gratefully as Beckett took the little girl, who gurgled in confusion. "I'll just be a moment."

Mrs. Norton headed back to her kitchen to find the address, and Baby Lucy snuggled happily in Kate's arms, seemingly content.

And as Castle watched Kate Beckett beaming at the baby girl in her arms, cuddling her close and letting Lucy's tiny little hands grab at her fingers, it occurred to him that Kate was infinitely superior to Nikki Heat. Nikki was only as complex as he could imagine. But after three years of making it his job to figure her out, he still found himself wondering how many more facets of Kate Beckett there were to discover.

She gently ticked Lucy's foot, smiling as the little girl shrieked delightedly, and Castle decided that Kate driving his Ferrari in the little black dress was now his _second_ favorite side of her.

* * *

><p>4. Screw your courage to the sticking-place.<p>

_MacBeth_

Castle liked to imagine himself in his characters' places. It was obvious that his literary paean to Kate Beckett included the completely transparent version of himself (Jameson Rook? Please. He wasn't even trying to hide it.). But he lost himself in many of his characters.

He never felt cooler than he did as Derrick Storm. Derrick was a _badass_. The guy could hotwire a car, climb a mountain, make love to a supermodel, dance a world-class tango, raft a class VI rapids, drink ten guys under the table, and solve the mystery of the Speckled Band, all in the same day. He was a hybrid: half Bond, half MacGyver, a dash of Lennie Briscoe-grade sarcasm sprinkled on top. Derrick Storm rocked.

Today, for instance, Storm would have been early to the precinct, not five minutes late because he'd gotten toothpaste on his shirt and almost forgotten his wallet.

The day passed without much event – he got to the next level in Angry Birds _and_ managed to tweet quotes from every single Batman movie completely from memory, which he considered a good day's work – until Ryan and Esposito came running in with the sort of case-breaking lead that Storm would certainly have been the one to find. Damn it.

He and Beckett were off in the Crown Vic of Justice to investigate the supposedly-abandoned apartment building near the crime scene. Appropriately ramshackle, creaky, dusty. Good place to set a fight scene.

Once inside the ground-floor apartment, all cracked boards and peeling wallpaper and cobwebs and torn paper and trash lying around, he had no sooner thought that than Beckett yelled "Get _down!"_ and he heard a BANG as a massive butcher knife came flying at his face, missing him by inches, and hit the wall behind him.

Castle hit the floor, the knife dropping into a giant crack in the wormy floorboards and vanishing from sight, and tried to regain his equilibrium. But as he looked up, Beckett was already chasing the guy into the kitchen, gun drawn. He scrambled to his feet. Can't let Storm down.

He heard her call for backup – there was a crash – and he got to the kitchen door to see Beckett, sprawled on the floor, her gun knocked away and blood trickling from her head, her eyes a little dazed. The killer was on his knees. Reaching for her gun. He was only feet away. He was going to get it.

No thought.

Castle grabbed the nearest potential weapon, which happened to be a spatula, and dove for the killer, hitting as hard as he could, letting loose his utter fury that someone so utterly worthless could even _imagine_ destroying someone so perfect and beautiful.

It wasn't until the gentle hand touched his shoulder that he realized Beckett was up, holding her gun and pulling out her cuffs. And the killer was bleeding and unconscious beneath his shaking hands.

"Castle – you – " she shook her head, holstering her gun. "You just saved my life. With a spatula."

"I – it – was the first thing I could grab."

Had he really just been slapping a guy's face with a spatula?

Definitely _not_ Derrick Storm. Storm would've grabbed a knife. Or at least a frying pan. Something that didn't wobble. And the guy would've gone down with one swift, solid blow, hit the floor like a stone. Storm would've cuffed him one-handed, of course. Then the negligee-clad blonde supermodel he'd just saved and lifted in his muscular arms would pull him into her bedroom, the negligee would end up on the floor, and she would proceed to thank him. In dirty, sweaty ways.

But Beckett was wearing a turtleneck and leather jacket, and though her hair was as glorious as any fictional bombshell's could ever be, she'd only been down for a second before scrambling to her feet. He hadn't even had time to give her a hand to to pull herself up before she had a knee on the guy's back, cuffing him neatly.

She pulled out her phone to call it in – the uniforms had been knocking on doors, so they were just a few minutes away – and Castle took a deep breath, finally setting down the spatula. It was probably safe now. Seeing as she had her gun back and all.

She put her phone away and took a deep breath. And that's when he realized her hands were shaking. Just like his had been. Shaking? He touched her arm tentatively. "Hey. You okay?" Kate Beckett didn't _tremble_. She didn't shake, or quiver, or do anything that resembled fear. It was not in her nature.

"I'm fine."

She squeezed his hand, and before he realized it, she put a hand to his face, stretched on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Castle."

_Eat your heart out, Storm_. _I win this round_.

* * *

><p>5. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?<p>

_Much Ado About Nothing_

Castle doesn't know when he fell in love with Kate Beckett. It happened gradually. He was in over his head before he realized it.

But he does know a few important benchmarks.

He first knew he liked her when she walked into the interrogation room and asked about his arrest record. He flirted with her and she got irritated. So he kept irritating her because she was cute when she was flustered.

He first knew he was interested in her when he asked her out, she said No Thanks, she whispered into his ear, and she walked off saucily without looking back. He'd watched her like an idiot, unable to stop his grin, because he could still feel her hot breath on his skin and still feel the way he'd started to lean into her before she gave him one last teasing line and sauntered off like she'd already forgotten about him.

He knew it was emotional, not just physical attraction, when she told him about her mother. When she quietly told him the darkest part of her past and let him see the most vulnerable, broken part of herself. The look in her eyes had haunted him for days. He'd tried to write more Nikki Heat but just ended up writing poetry. Because terse, straightforward prose couldn't come close to capturing the painful, bittersweet beauty in her eyes. He could write a hundred books and never come close.

He wasn't sure how his publishers would react when he explained to them that this series was going to have to last a thousand more books before he was even close to satisfied.

He realized that he might possibly care for her _too_ much when she told him to leave and not come back and she went back to Will's hospital room, and he felt a horrible shock go through his heart when it hit him that she was serious. He'd gone home, mind reeling, because he'd only known her a few months, after all, and how could a woman he hadn't known for a year, hadn't dated, hadn't slept with, hadn't even _hugged,_ tear such a hole through him with two simple words?

He steadfastly tried to ignore the pang that went through his heart whenever he thought of her that summer, but it he couldn't really fool himself.

He _suspected_ it might be the real thing when he finally figured out that an apology, a simple, straightforward _I'm sorry_, was the only thing he could do. He said the words and was stunned to realize he felt purged. Cleaner. Emptied of the painful guilt. Because if she wasn't going to see him again, at the very least, he wanted her to know he hadn't done it out of malice. She _had_ to understand that he might have done it thoughtlessly, but not with the intention of hurting her.

…and then she said _see you tomorrow_. But it meant _I forgive you_.

It felt like the first time he'd breathed since spring.

And he particularly remembered the day he realized he was hopelessly, pathetically, deliriously in love.

It was the day he'd come in after Alexis' distastrous Halloween party adventure with Paige. After making Alexis breakfast – he wanted to do it; he _knew_ everything was okay, but he still just wanted to make sure his baby girl was going to be fine – he hurried into the precinct, wondering if he should have gotten coffee to effectively send Beckett the message that he was sorry for being late, even though he knew she'd understand.

She was out for the moment, so he took his usual seat beside her desk. And as he sat, something on her desk caught his eye.

Little Fagin was nestled gently inside a makeshift bed, atop a little cushion of neatly arranged tissues.

He let out a breath, an incredulous smile crossing his face. Fagin was safe and sound. He looked closer – the bed, an upside-down stone jar lid, wasn't one from the precinct kitchen. He didn't recognize it. And the tissues underneath his faux-grandson? Nobody had tissues this soft at the precinct. Most of the officers just used toilet paper if they had to sneeze.

Beckett had taken Fagin home to keep him safe.

Without warning, something blossomed inside his chest, something warm and soft and uncurling through his veins, flooding his whole body with a gentle glow.

_I love her_.

She reappeared at her desk and immediately asked if Alexis was okay. And tried to brush off his thanks for keeping Fagin safe, looking a little self-conscious. He didn't care that she felt foolish. She worried about his daughter. She tucked his grandson into bed. He just couldn't help himself.

Because she had simply made herself impossible to _not_ love.


End file.
